Tom Cotton Rules

 Tom Cotton's messages are always direct, sometimes with more periods than necessary.

Tom Cotton's messages are always direct, sometimes with more periods than necessary.

Tom Cotton is the man.  I just started watching game of thrones and, though I realize some of the time that the show is fantasy, not historical drama, I marvel at how straight forward killing was some time ago.  There aren’t any laws prohibiting the act, no media to criticize your exploits, no non-violent concepts to interfere with the primal urge to kill and take and improve survival.  Who wouldn’t want more power, more territory, more prestige and riches?  Who wouldn’t want slaves and a harem and an amry?  What kind of masochistic pussy would every suggest an alternative?  Game of Thrones isn’t fantasy, it’s men being fucking men, territorial beasts and that’s still the world some people want to live in. 

Tom Cotton is one of them.  Even today, with political correctness, in a complex interwoven world, with peaceful, more civilized resolutions available, Cotton wants to keep things simple.  Cotton wants to take the Call of Duty approach, where one enters a predetermined arena of good and bad, where success is based on staying alive while offing as many moving objects as possible.  And it’s refreshing. 

Politics today is so shrouded in passive aggressiveness and indirect reasoning.  Republicans want to kill Obamacare because they hate to see Obama succeed and definitely don’t  want to supplement poor people’s health care.  But they’ll argue it’s a matter of the bill’s language, about a website and other red herrings.   They’ll argue Keystone is a matter of national security and job creation when those in favor are just shills for the oil and gas industry.  Politics is a game of clouding the obvious.  Tom Cotton doesn’t fuck with clouds.  He wants his obvious bigotry, nationalism, exceptionalism, shallowness and hatred to shine, burning the skin of his observers.  Why not?  He’s right as far as he’s concerned. 

With unabashed Chris Kyle disdain, he uses his own experiences as an invader, fostering a hatred for a people who, though on their own soil, threatened his and his countries freedom.  He, with as little research as this essay, bases his believes and political actions on gut feelings, a toxic, acidic, IBS laden, ulcerous gut. 

“Overthrow the Iranian regime,” he rallies while Iran current government is it’s most moderate and cooperative since it’s revolution. 

“Every last one of them can rot in hell,” he says of Guantanamo detainees while fifty five of the eighty six have already been cleared for release and others have been decided to pose no threat to US security.  He also proposes sanctions on any country who hosts a released detainee.

The more we bomb, if we’re killing terrorists, the safer we are,” he says which is just plain perfect. 

 Imagine living in a world where all you have to do is just be a good wholesome kid who loves his country and goes to war and church, who roots for the Red Sox and hates the Yankees, who obeys his parents and grandparents and gets pats on the head and a trust fund, who thinks America can do no wrong, who thinks brown people can do no right, who thinks jingoism is just some faggot liberal criticism for leadership.

 Tom Cotton is that guy.  He’s the Paul Ryan of foreign policy, another milky-eyed idiot with a bashful smile straight out of a dystopian Norman Rockwell painting.  Another product of narcissistic parents who raised a little prince intent to reify the world in his own Merry Christmas model.

 The best part of people like Cotton is the insulation of their self esteem.  Cotton isn’t just opiniated, he’s viciously out of touch.  After living through, in our own country, in our own time, the results of an aggressive, intolerant nation invading an adversary, toppling a regime and proselytizing our brand of democracy upon a complex society, Cotton only wants to up the ante.  With obvious evidence that our own callous actions in Iraq germinated the Islamic State, Cotton just turns the ZZ Top up louder, greasing his pistol in the garage. 

And we’re all about it.  We’re American Sniper raving freaks.  We’re gluten free or fucking far from it.  We’re passport toting or red-white-and-blue-bleeding.  We’re tea party or war hawk.  We’re Wall St. dems or progressives.  We’re jagged extremes of opinion, techtonically upheaved throughout this young century.  We’re weary and we just want someone to say what he fucking means.  We want it easy succinct, short sentences.  Tom Cotton might be a fucking psycho, a King Joffrey type who’s rhetoric is based on preordained hatreds and a backup of cum in his scrotum, but the guy doesn’t hold back and that’s so damn charming.